It’s a nasty, diseased like state of mind where a person who
believes in his/her ability to bead together words as a form of expression, and
has previously done so is unable to churn out anything, for reasons unknown. There
is definitely no lack of thought, emotion or imagination (at times, imagination yes) and
ideas, but it suddenly just does not seem to translate at all on paper.
The victim may initially disregard it as a ‘passing phase’ in oblivion or might not even realize it, thanks to distractions but will end up flustered and frustrated with one self. This is a stage between ‘having words’ and ‘having no words’, ‘an urge to write’ and ‘laziness’, ‘having lots to write about’ and yet ‘being blank’.
It feels no different than the other, the more common
constipation; you want to get all of that out and experience ease and satisfaction.
It wouldn’t be hard to guess the reason for this piece and also what took me so long to post something new here. After reading my take on this acute form of constipation, you would be of the opinion that I spent the last six months in distress and boredom which I did for most of the time but, I also did a few interesting things.
I interned in Mumbai as a copywriter with one of these middle-sized ad agencies and I thoroughly enjoyed my stay. Without the comfort of my hometown veiling me, I could explore a city the way I wanted. I realized what it is to have the sea around or to witness a high alert in the city (I was there when Balasaheb Thackeray passed away and when Dadar station was dead empty and haunting at 8.30.p.m. It felt weird to stand at the window and see the Bandra-Worli sea link on the right, the Siddhi Vinayak Temple in the middle and the pyre smoke rising up from Shivaji Park, towards the left, all in one frame. Not to mention the heartbreaking cry- Parat ya! Parat ya! Balasaheb parat ya! And the white clad dots that oozed out of Dadar station, visible from another window. It all gave me goosebumps. ). Often, as I embarked on trains, stories would brew up in my mind, stories would happen around me but…I say this with extreme self-guilt…but I never got to capture those in ink even if I had the urge to.
Hadn’t it been a week since I came back home, I left for
this beautiful, ironically very colourful desert state -Rajasthan. I journeyed
through Jodhpur, Jaiselmer, Mt. Abu and Udaipur. I love exploring a particular
region, knowing its people, its history and that’s precisely what we did there.
I felt so many things when I toured all these ancient forts and havelis that I
had so much to say but with much regret it never reached the paper. After this, I had another trip lined up in January-
a trip to Jaipur for the much awaited ‘Jaipur Literature Festival’. That was
truly a literary treat! Getting to interact with a few of my favourite authors
and discovering many new books to read was fun.
The immediate day after I came back I joined another ad
agency in Pune and thus beginning another new journey. In these months of exile
from writing but on a travelling and photography spree, it pinched my heart to
do all the things I loved to do except writing. When I captured most of what I
wanted to capture through my lens and not words I felt I’m betraying my first
love...
At times, I sit here in office and wonder why I don’t write
in the free time I get in between two tasks. I muse over all the things I want
to write about and I could have written about and feel a little dilapidated.
Then again, I try to be positive and forget all the self-nagging and
self-pricking I’ve felt for months, push my self hard enough to make the
saturated constipated bubble to burst and come up with this, not so shitty,
shit!
